Stephen Lawhead - Taliesin

“He might. He most certainly will consider it-it offers a most attractive way out of his dilemma,” Belyn answered. “The war has taken a turn against him. He will be under pressure from Nestor to be more effective in his raiding. After his most recent beating he is sitting in his palace licking his wounds, counting his losses, wondering what Nestor will say when he learns that their best ambush troops have been beaten. And here comes his chance to win his way back into Nestor’s favor, perhaps win a decisive victory-and at very low risk to himself.”

“Would he do it?” asked Kian, on his feet now, gripping the back of his chair with his hands. “Would he?”

“Would you if you were in his place?” Belyn rose and went to the table and poured more wine, which he downed in a single swallow. Both he and Kian seemed to have forgotten all about Charis and Maildun in their excitement over the plan. “If I were Seithenin I would send the ships-and pray to every god in heaven and earth that they get there in time. He will send them and sacrifice day and night for favorable winds. He knows we will wait only a week. And he knows that traveling overland Nestor can never reach us in time.”

“But by ship he would have a chance!” shouted Kian.

“It is Seithenin’s only hope.”

“He would do it.”

“He would be a fool not to.”

They fell silent and looked at one another. “How do we take the ships?” wondered Kian.

“Yes, and what do we do with them once we have them?” asked Belyn. Both men turned their gaze on Charis.

“Give diem to me,” she said.

“So you can sail away when the catastrophe comes?” taunted Kian.

“Catastrophe?” echoed Maildun.

“Precisely,” she agreed. “You said yourself Seithenin is losing. All he has left is his fleet. Without that, he must face the fact that he cannot win.”

“But Nestor”

“Without Seithenin to back up his schemes, Nestor will suddenly become far more interested in protecting his own borders than in overrunning ours.”

“He would never sue for peace,” Kian said.

“Who cares?” said Charis hotly. “It does not matter anymore what they do. Let them divide all nine kingdoms between themselves, for all the good it will do them.” She glared sternly at the two men. “If I am wrong, what has been lost? A little time perhaps. But if I am right, what is gained? Either way you have Seithenin’s ships, and either way you have won a great victory-perhaps ended the war.”

Belyn stared at Maildun, then at Charis. “We will do it,” he said, shaking a finger at her. “But by Cybel’s horns you had not the slightest idea what you were going to say when you came here tonight.”

“You may be right, Uncle. The details I leave to you,” replied Charis magnanimously. “Just bring me the ships as soon as you have them.” She pushed herself slowly, stiffly up from the chair. “I am going back to the palace.”

“Now? Tonight?” asked Kian.

“Yes, now. Tonight.” She waved aside his assistance. “I want to get back to the palace.”

“It is late, Charis. Stay,” Maildun said.

Belyn came to her. “Rest a few hours at least. Leave at first light tomorrow. I will send a guard with you.”

“There is no need.”

“I insist. You can have my bed-all our beds, in fact.” He put a hand on each man’s shoulder. “Your brothers and I will be working through the night.”

Work on Elphin’s timber hall proceeded at a brisk pace. Within a week of the warband’s return, the tranquillity of the hilltop caer was a memory. Every morning at dawn when the gates were opened, scores of men with shining axes trooped out to the forest and soon the first of the logs were being dragged back up the incline behind a team of horses- an activity which continued until dusk. With a hundred pairs of hands to cut, dress, and drag the logs from the nearby forest, to manhandle them into place, to wedge, peg, and fit them together one on another, joining them to the huge timber uprights with rawhide thongs, the stout walls grew higher with each passing day.

For the necessary ironwork Elphin wooed and won a smith, giving him cattle and a patch of land on the river for his forge. From early morning and on into the night the clang of the smith’s hammer could be heard ringing through the woods along the river, answered by the chunk, chunk, chink of the woodcutters’ axes. Those not directly involved with the building of the hall were put to work enlarging the caer itself: digging a new outer ditch and refilling a portion of the old ditch so that the outer walls could be expanded.

Over all this industry, surrounding it, permeating it like a seasoning vapor, wafted the aroma of roasting meat and baking bread as the women turned spit and tended oven in an effort to feed the hungry builders. Meal bags full of apples, mounds of meat, mountains of bread, and whole wheels of cheese disappeared as soon as they were laid on the board, washed down by frothy rivers of beer and mead.

Liberally sown through the bustle and fuss, sprinkled like glittering dew or bright nuggets of gemstone, was the laughter of children. The enormity of the task, the grandness of the enterprise fascinated the younger inhabitants of Caer Dyvi, who encouraged it with squeals of delight at the wonders practiced before them. Their tireless good cheer lightened the load for their elders, and the picture of a workman standing over a child, hand lightly over the small hand beneath his own, guiding the tool, was a scene often observed throughout the caer. Though the work was hard, the high spirits and good humor of all concerned made it seem sometimes as if the walls were raised by laughter alone, as by childish enchantment.

Taliesin was no less caught up in the spell than the rest. He was everywhere, dodging roof beams as they swung through the air, riding the logs as they came up the incline, dipping his fingers into the caldron for a bit of meat, snatching an apple from a bag or filching a piece of cheese, creeping to the doorway of the dark hut on the river to hear the wheeze and whoosh of the Bellows and see the red fireglow on the black, glistening brow of the smith-descendant of Gofannon, god of the fiery forge-running along the log trail with the other boys to bring water and beer to thirsty woodcutters…

The days were good, and despite the long hours of labor it was a glad time for the people of Caer Dyvi. Elphin was a leader and a helper to his men-as often as not stripped to the waist, as they were, hair bound in a thick braid, hammer in hand astride a log newly raised to the wall, dripping sweat in the sun. This was how Hafgan found him one afternoon several weeks after Cormach’s visit.

“Hail, Hafgan, Henog of Gwynedd!” Elphin called down to him. The autumn sun was hot and bright, the sky deep autumn blue. He paused in his work to survey the scene, pride lighting his eyes as he drew an arm across his forehead. “What do you think, bard? Will the weather hold till we get a roof on?”

“The weather will hold, lord,” replied the druid, casting a critical eye to the sky.

“Then, by Lieu, we will have a hall before Samhain.”

“I think you will.” Hafgan stood, gazing up at Elphin, shading his eyes with his hand.

“Something else, Hafgan?” asked the king.

“A word, Lord Elphin.”

Elphin nodded and put down his hammer. He climbed down the birch ladder and came to where Hafgan was standing. “What is it, Hafgan?”

“Cormach has died. I must go bury him.”

Elphin nodded amiably. “I see. Yes, go.”

“I wish Taliesin to come with me.”

Elphin pulled on his mustache. “Is it necessary?”

Hafgan shrugged. “It would be instructive.”